Legends
by L. Mouse
Summary: Catherine is given an old, cold case to prosecute. Unexpectedly, her case may contain clues to Vincent's origins. Rating is for later chapters.
1. Chapter 1

Author's Notes:

This is not a typical BatB story. Stories in this fandom have a very common pattern that this won't follow. I say that up front, because I've written BatB fic before -- about ten years ago -- and been flamed to 'well done' for not following the unspoken rules. A decade ago, I wrote a story that wasn't 'formula' and people objected and said I missed the point of the show. This is a fairy tale spun into the world of Vincent and Catherine -- the story's theme is about identity, and what happens when everything you ever believed to be true in your life is suddenly changed.

(Oh, and for anyone wondering about my Rurouni Kenshin series ... I'm still working on it. And the Inuyasha/Buffy crossover, too -- expect a couple of new chapters for both of those series in the very near future.)

------------------

"Hey Radcliffe," Joe said, sticking his head into her office. "Here's a reward for all your hard work."

He had three thick manila folders in his hands. She rolled her eyes at him. "Right. The reward for doing a good job is more work. Thanks, Joe."

"Ah, you'll like this one. It's right up your alley." He held the folder on the top of the pile up. "Jane Doe got identified."

"Yeah?" she said, with both interest and a bit of a mental flag of warning.

"Twenty-five years old."

"So they got a break on an old case?" She guessed.

"Yeah. Dead body has an ID, at last, and a suspect to go with." He sat down on the corner of her desk, and placed a somewhat protective hand on the folder. "You might not want to eat before you look at the photos."

"Thanks for the warning."

"Mmhmm."

After he'd left she poured herself a cup of coffee and turned her attention to the case. Joe was correct in that the case had some gruesome pictures -- they'd been taken in 1963, according to notes. A woman, dressed in jeans and a floral print shirt, lay dead in an alley. Catherine's coffee went untouched -- the body had been brutalized.

Catherine frowned at the autopsy report that followed. The woman had died of deep slashing wounds. Somebody had taken something akin to a machete or sword to her body. She had fought hard, despite her attacker's weapon -- she had a number of defensive wounds on her arms and hands. There were photos, and Joe was right that they were best viewed on an empty stomach.

Her name, it turned out, was Alice Andrews. Had she lived, she would be in her fifties now, Catherine realized -- old enough to be Cathy's own mother. According to the report, Alice had been identified from the crime scene photos by her eighty year old mother, who had been looking for her for twenty-seven years. The woman's mother was from Maine, and Alice had disappeared from her family home two years before the murder -- a seventeen year old runaway, then. They had solidly confirmed the ID with fingerprints. Alice had a history of petty crime as a teenager.

The suspect was an old boyfriend who was now sixty-two, retired, with grandkids.

Catherine pinched the bridge of her nose, headache building, as she read the case files. Gordon, the boyfriend, had a history of domestic violence and minor convictions. He'd also spent a couple years in jail for aggravated assault on a neighbor, twenty years before. However, that had been his last conviction -- he'd gone clean after that, by all accounts, and had run his own bike shop until retiring. He was also involved in a somewhat controversial group that patrolled inner city neighborhoods, seeking to stop crime.

However, the case that the detectives had built was purely circumstantial: he'd run away with seventeen year old Alice, when he was twenty-seven himself. A strike against him, from a moral standpoint -- though she'd have to check the laws back then to find out if it was legally statutory rape. She wasn't sure when the age of consent had been in the 1960's, or if there was a statute of limitations.

A year later, Alice had been the victim in one of his domestic violence convictions. And again, the same thing, a month later. He'd broken her nose in the latter case, in a drunken rage. He'd been put on probation but not jailed and she had rejoined him.

And the cops had found a buddy who swore, twenty-five years ago, he'd overheard Gordon threaten to kill the girl if she ever looked at another man.

Friends of Alice's, from two and a half decades ago, had told the investigating detective that she'd broken up with Gordon a year before she died. They claimed she'd said she was leaving because she had met a new man. They thought she'd done that -- that she'd left her old life behind and moved on to something new and perhaps better.

Gordon had been infuriated.

A year later, Alice Andrews had been found dead in an alley.

There was other evidence -- a man's boot prints, in Gordon's size, at the scene, and motorcycle tracks. Blood that had typed the same has his -- O negative -- had also been found on Alice's clothing. And finally, he'd been arrested for drunk and disorderly the next day, only ten miles away -- the cops had noted he had a black eye and scratches on his arms. He had refused to say how he had been hurt. Given the number of times that Gordon had been arrested for being an idiot, Catherine thought it was entirely possible that this was coincidence.

The detective on the case had put a lot of weight on that arrest, and on the injuries, but Catherine really didn't want to face a defense attorney with the case as it was. Any decent lawyer could dismantle that theory easily. None of the evidence proved he was the killer -- at least, not to a degree that Cathy wanted to push for prosecution.

However, one point that stood out to Catherine was that Alice had very recently given birth. There was no sign of her baby -- a baby who would be twenty-five now. It made her wonder what the truth was -- and where that baby was.

-------------

"I don't know if we have enough evidence to convict." Catherine leaned against the railing of her apartment's balcony, and looked up at Vincent. He stood, reassuringly calm and thoughtful, with his back to her dutch doors. It was early -- just past ten -- and she had been a little surprised to see him show up so soon. Usually, he waited until the streets were quieter to come to see her.

However, it was snowing, and bitterly cold. Anyone with any sense had gone inside, and wasn't out and about. Vincent had taken advantage of the cover of the snow storm to make his way to her apartment.

Vincent bowed his head, appearing deep in thought. "Do you believe the man killed his girlfriend?"

"Honestly?" Catherine said, with some hesitation, "I don't know. I'm not comfortable with this case, Vincent -- if he really killed her then he should go to jail, yes. If he didn't ... he's a sixty-two year old man with grandchildren. He was obviously an idiot when he was younger, but he's been a reasonably upstanding citizen for quite awhile. And I'm not sure that it's possible to collect enough evidence to prove he's guilty, in any event. Dragging him through a trial ..." she trailed off, then added, "... and his children, and his wife, and his grandchildren ... they'll be punished for something he might not have even done."

She rubbed her hands up and down her arms; the turmoil in her soul had drawn Vincent to her, because he knew she needed to talk. However, it was damned cold outside. She was torn between the comfort of talking to him and appeal of central heating.

He started to shrug out of his cloak, to offer it to her. However, this would simply mean that Vincent would be the one to shiver. She gestured inside, "Vincent, why don't we step into my apartment, where it is warm?"

She saw concern in his eyes -- not really fear, but a certain worried awkwardness. He had been in her apartment, yes, but never for purely social reasons. She hugged herself again, tucking her fingers under her arms, and said, "It's cold out here and -- and I'm very glad you came, I don't want you to leave."

Still, he hesitated.

"You can help me make some cocoa ..." she offered, uncertainly.

He relaxed, a little. _Making cocoa_ put them on safe ground. Vincent was scared of getting too close to her, for all sorts of complicated reasons. _Making cocoa_ undoubtedly sounded less threatening to his ears than _let's go inside and talk. _

She bustled about her kitchen, getting out a carton of milk, chocolate syrup, and a canister of whipped cream. Vincent watched, looking somewhat uncomfortable, until she thrust a whisk into his hands and aimed him at a pan of milk on the stove. "Stir."

With a smile, he did as she'd ordered, after rolling his sleeve up one hairy arm so it wouldn't dangle into the milk. It was her turn to watch ... Vincent was in her kitchen, cooking. The scene was utterly surreal. And yet, somehow, it felt just right. Cozy.

"I'm sorry I don't have any marshmallows," she said, after squeezing a generous amount of chocolate syrup into the hot milk.

He surprised her by smiling broader. "I loved marshmallows as a child. I haven't had then in cocoa for years. But this is fine, Catherine."

"Next time, there will be marshmallows," she promised.

"Next time," he murmured.

"Will you have a seat?" She gestured at her kitchen table. It was scattered with papers, including the case report in question. None of the disturbing photos were on display, but there were plenty of police reports. She started to pick them up and sort them by date before putting them away.

Vincent reached out to help, then stopped, hand hovering over a photocopy of a document so old it was typewritten. Alice's file had quite a progression of technology shown in it: the oldest papers were handwritten or typed, and only later did dot matrix printing take over. Too, she could tell the difference between Xerox copies and mimeographed copies -- and vague Xexor copies of mimeographed and originally typed papers, in some cases.

He looked at the paper, then up at her, then back at the document in his hand. His expression was odd.

"What?"

"Catherine," he said, "this woman was killed on the day I was found, and only a block away." He shook his head. "It's probably unrelated, but it is a very strange coincidence."

"She had just given birth," Catherine said, quietly.

He reached for the stack of photos that were tucked into the folder. Before she could warn him, he'd flipped them face up ... the picture on top was of a piece of jewelry the woman had been wearing, much to Catherine's relief. The item was distinctive -- a celtic design, inlaid with precious stones. She put a hand down on top of the photos. "Vincent ..."

He met her eyes. There was mulish stubbornness there; she'd seen him turn that expression on Father a number of times, but had rarely been a target of it herself. Then he tugged the next picture free and looked at it. She heard his indrawn breath, saw his lips pinch together and his nostrils flare.

"I'm sorry," she said, reaching for the photos. The stark black and white did little to conceal the woman's terrible injuries."I wish you hadn't seen that."

He looked away from her. His adam's apple bobbed. He said nothing.

"She's probably not related to you," Catherine said, wanting to sooth him somehow. "It's probably just a coincidence."

"A coincidence," he echoed her words. He still did not meet her eyes.

"I'll ... I'll look into it, Vincent." She rested a hand on his arm, trying to draw him back to her.

He finally looked up. His gaze was startlingly intense. "May I ... read this case?"

Technically, the information was confidential. She shouldn't let anyone else read over it. However, this was Vincent ... it wasn't as if anyone would ever find out, and she had a keen appreciation for his intellect. Her primary concern was a fiercely protective one. She didn't want him to get involved in something that might be a painful dead end, and would likely hurt even if it turned out to be true.

_On the other hand, he'd have a living grandmother. And we might find out what, precisely, he is. _

"Please," he said, quietly.

"Okay." She could sense the emotional turmoil in his soul -- this case could, perhaps, be closure for him. Or not. But he wanted to know. And, in truth, so did she.

He set the photos aside, clearly having no stomach to see any more, and held a hand out for the stack of papers. She passed them to him, then sat down at the table. He pulled his own chair out, and started reading.

It was funny -- Vincent was no blood relative to Father, of course, but in that moment, he looked very much like the man who'd raised him. It was entirely in his body language. He stared intently at the work, occasionally massaging the bridge of his nose. He held each piece of paper individually before setting it precisely aside, and she could tell he was being very thorough.

"There's no name for the man she left Gordon for," Vincent observed.

"Yeah. That's an angle I'd look into. I'm not sure why they're trying to pin this on Gordon without finding him, first."

"If this boyfriend even existed," Vincent observed. "She may have invented a boyfriend as an excuse to her friends for why she was running away. Perhaps to keep them from worrying ..." he trailed off, then said, "But she did have a baby."

Catherine forbore mentioning that having a baby didn't require having a boyfriend, just sex. "Finding the father is on my agenda."

"Mmm." Vincent said, a noise of agreement. "And you will be speaking to her friends?"

"Yeah. That, too." She rested a hand on his wrist. "Vincent, what would you do if she turned out to be your mother?"

He covered her fingers with his. "I don't know, Catherine. I am not certain it would change much about my life. Though, I would like to know who killed her."

"The law will deal with them," she said, in mild alarm.

He sighed and said, with some considerable cynicism, "The law. Justice." He tapped the photographs, turned face down on the table. "Where is the justice for this woman, and for her mother, who mourns her? Where is the justice for the loved ones of the man accused of killing her? Justice."

She rose, suddenly, and impulsively wrapped her arms around his broad shoulders. His arm went around her waist, and he hugged her tightly. "Catherine ... in this woman, I know that I am merely grasping at straws. But I have questions that I would desperately like to have answered. Perhaps she will lead me to those answers."


	2. Chapter 2

Author's Notes: As a child of the 1980's, I'm finding writing this fic to be very interesting. It's a walk down nostalgia lane. It was a very different time -- no cell phones, no internet, and most of the high tech stuff we take for granted today was just barely beginning. And the fashions ... oh, the fashions!

(Note: I am also aware that the hippie movement didn't really get started until 1965 ... the woman Cathy is talking to in this chapter would technically have been a beatnik, and only later a hippie.)

---------------

The woman lived in a brownstone a good distance from Catherine's apartment -- and, she knew, well out of Vincent's reach if anything should go wrong. Still, this was, so far, a relatively ordinary case. She wasn't particularly worried.

She paid the cab driver, and tipped him extra to wait until she knew that Emily Meadows was home, then walked up to the front door and knocked. The door opened promptly, as if the woman had seen her arrive.

"Ms. Meadows?" Catherine said, "I'm Cathy Chandler, with the DA. I spoke to you on the phone yesterday?"

"Yeah, come in," the woman said. Catherine waved at the taxi driver, who sped off, and then she followed the woman into her home.

The woman was thin. She had long, auburn but graying, hair pulled back into a short pony tail and no makeup. The inside house matched her appearance -- it was wholesome, with unpretentious furniture, photographs of family on the wall, and at least three cats.

The cats eyed Catherine suspiciously from the top of a book case stuffed with paperback novels -- all three of them were lined up in a row. They were nearly identical in appearance. Two were all black and one was black with a tiny snip of white on his chest.

"Littermates," the woman said, when she saw where Catherine's gaze fell. "I found them orphaned, last year."

"Ms. Meadows, will you talk to me about Alice Andrews?" Cathy said, softly.

"Yes. And call me Emily, please." The woman met Catherine's eyes with a level, calm expression. "I was afraid something bad had happened back then, but I've always thought of Alice living free somewhere, safe from that goon Gordon. I guess I always knew the truth, but I wished it wasn't so."

"I'm hoping you can tell me something about your friend," the woman said.

"I've told the detectives all I know," there was a hint of wariness there, now.

Catherine held her hand out, palm up. "I'm not the police. I'd prefer hearing about Alice from you than second-hand from a police report."

"Okay." Emily agreed. "That's actually smart of you. The police who've been doing the investigation? Not so smart."

"In what way?"

Emily snorted. "They're just looking to resolve a twenty-five year old murder 'cause it'd look great on their resumes. They're not real interested in the truth."

"Mmm." Catherine couldn't entirely disagree. "I would like to see her murderer convicted. But I will tell you that there's not enough evidence to pin the crime on Gordon -- oh, my boss wants to try, but ..."

"Just so." Emily said, in apparent agreement. "It's been twenty-five years, Ms. Chandler ..."

"Cathy," Catherine said.

"Cathy," Emily nodded. A little bit of the wariness left her eyes. She gestured towards the kitchen at the rear of the house. "... come on back, I've got a pot of coffee on."

Catherine followed her through the house, noting more bookshelves. A Cabbage Patch Kid sat on one -- Catherine wondered if there was a grandchild that the doll belonged to, or if Emily had purchased it for herself. The kitchen itself was tidy. A boom box was playing music on the kitchen counter -- Emily pushed the "stop" button and then "rewind" and the cassette deck squealed thinly in response. Catherine had identified Freddie Mercury's soaring voice as they'd entered the room.

Emily poured two mugs of rich, dark coffee and offered Catherine milk and sugar. "... as I was saying," she said, finally, thoughtfully, "... it's been twenty-five years. Some things are best left buried in the past."

"Her mother wants closure," Catherine sipped the coffee and, at Emily's gesture, sat down at the table.

"Mmm. I suppose I would, too. It's funny that I've got kids older now than Alice was when ... well, when she left us." Emily glanced at a photograph on the wall of a pair of girls. "They're both in college. My eldest is twenty-eight. She'll be starting her residency as a doctor next year. My younger girl's going for a degree in business."

She smiled faintly and fingered the hand-crocheted table cloth on her kitchen table, tracing a pattern with one nail. The thread used to make the table cloth was brown and gold -- the colors were out of fashion by about ten years. However, Catherine privately thought that the earth tones of the 1970's were a distinct improvement over the neons of the 1980's. Emily had on black and pink sneakers -- fashionable, cute, gaudy, way too bright.

The woman said, still speaking of her children, "Pretty impressive for kids of an old beatnik. So. About Alice."

"How long did you know her?"

"Gosh. Maybe ... maybe six years? We met in San Francisco. Got along real well, you know, and hung together after that. Gordon was a jerk; he didn't like me much, but Alice would just laugh at him. He wasn't one of us 'cept that he liked the love. Oh, he liked that a lot."

Catherine fought hard not to blush. Emily just stared into the distance over Catherine's shoulder. Emily said quietly, "It was a different time, then. No AIDs, y'know?"

"Oh." Catherine said, unsure what to say. Except she knew she had to ask, because it might be important for the case, "This is kindof a nosy question, but I might need to know. Did, um, you sleep with him?"

Emily snorted. "How old are you, anyway?"

Catherine, flustered, started to answer that question literally. Emily held a hand up, stopping her, "I'm teasing. But to answer your question, we all did. Mind, he didn't quite get the whole 'free love' thing because he'd get all sorts of jealous if Alice wanted some other guy and it wasn't Gordon's idea."

She paused, then added in a dreamy tone, "I will say that he was pretty good."

Catherine turned nearly as pink as the neon stripes on Emily's Nikes.

Emily chuckled. "You _are _young, kiddo." Then she sobered again, and said, "I have a hard time believing he's the killer. He was a dick, you know, and a very jealous man -- but he also had a fiercely protective side. He was the sensible one of the bunch. He was the one who saw that we ate, and had a place to stay. He'd pick up odd jobs to bring in money for food, when nobody else wanted to work. I guess you could say he had a head on his shoulders -- the rest of us were just dumb kids." She ran a hand over her face. "And he loved Alice. Sometimes, I think he loved her too much. He would tell her wanted something more in life. He wanted to settle down, have kids, get a job. She ... she was a free spirit. She would tell him he was too materialistic whenever he talked about wanting a house ... we agreed with her, then. Now, well, now I see where he was coming from." She glanced around the cozy kitchen.

"He'd get so _pissed _at her, sometimes, but he was trying to make her something she didn't want to be. And sometimes I think the only reason he stayed with us, pretended to be one of us, was because he wanted to be with her."

Emily shook her head, making her ponytail bounce. "I don't believe he killed her."

"Do you have any idea who?"

Emily shrugged. "I didn't see her for a year after she left us."

"Did you know the man she left with?"

Emily sipped her coffee. "Oh, he was a real nut case. His name was Aelann Gaelthide. Or, at least, that's what he said it was. He claimed he was a prince of a faery kingdom, exiled to Earth. And he was seeking a way back home. Alice was enchanted by him, if you'll pardon the pun."

Catherine snorted in instinctive disbelief. "Really? A faery prince?"

"Really. God's honest truth." Emily held a callused hand up, as if swearing an oath.

"This isn't in the police report."

Her eyes widened. "Ask the detectives, then. I_told _them about him. Aelann was a complete nut case. He carried a sword, even, and claimed he could do magic. He said he was five hundred years old, too."

"A sword," Catherine said, flatly, remembering the horrible photos of the badly mutilated woman.

"He was a very, very charismatic man, but there was always an edge of danger to him. He joined us a few weeks before Alice ran away with him, so I got to observe him a bit. One time, we were camped in the woods and this farmer tried to run us off since we couldn't pay him for the privilege of sleeping in his woods. Well, Gordon suggested he could sleep with Alice instead, y'know, as a kind of payment. And Aelann pulled that sword on Gordon and threatened to kill him if he ever acted so dishonorably towards Alice again."

Emily calmly sipped her coffee. "As I recall, the farmer let us spend the night without any payment."

"That's ... interesting."

"It is, indeed. Aelann gave her a amulet, too, and said it would protect her from evil. It had amethysts in it, however, and Gordon tried to sell it for food ... that's when Alice ran away with Aelann."

Catherine reached into her purse and retrieved the photograph of the amulet. "Is this the amulet, by any chance?"

Emily pulled a pair of reading glasses out of her shirt pocket, then peered at it. "Yup, that's it. Guess it didn't work."

Catherine sighed. "Guess not. Can you spell that name for me?"

"Sure. Though I'm betting it's not his real name."

"Probably not," Catherine agreed.

_Magic, _she thought, but did not even dare voice the faintest ghost of a suspicion. _Magic _would explain as much, perhaps more, than science ever could.

But magic wasn't real. Was it?


	3. Chapter 3

"Magic." Vincent said, arms folded, and a skeptical look on his face. He stood on her balcony, having declined an invitation to come inside.

"Alice Andrews had eight people -- not counting Aelann -- that she lived and traveled with. They were, umm ..." Catherine glanced up at him. This was incredibly hard to say to Vincent; the man was about as innocent as they came. "It was a different time. They were all sleeping together, from what they said. It was five girls and three men, and I've tracked down two of the women and one of the men besides Gordon."

Vincent nodded, and did not show any signs of embarrassment. "They were hippies."

"A little early for hippies -- they were ahead of their time by a few years." She brushed her hair back from her face -- because Vincent wasn't squirming at the subject, she was a bit less flustered herself. Funny that the same man who wouldn't even let her kiss him was so relaxed when it came to discussions about other people's sexual habits.

"Have you spoken to Gordon?" Vincent asked.

"He's lawyered up. He won't speak to me. And I don't want you to try -- I'd hate to have to explain you to Joe, Vincent," she said, with some concern.

He ignored that request. "And this Aelann ...?"

Catherine bit out, "The investigating detective did not think it was _important_ that Alice Andrews took off for parts unknown with a man who believed he was a faery prince. A man with a _sword_. And she died of sword wounds."

Vincent frowned. "That would seem to indicate an oversight on the detective's part."

"A slight one. Or a bias against Gordon because of his past. Or a desire to simply solve the case, without actually making sure the _right _person is arrested." She shook her head, disgusted.

"And there's no way to track down this Aelann?"

"What, am I going to find a faery prince in the phonebook?" Catherine snapped. Then she sighed, because she'd reacted with anger and it wasn't Vincent's fault. "Sorry, Vincent. I don't mean to take it out on you. This case just bothers me -- I know that the PD wants to pin it on Gordon, but it just doesn't feel right. Intuition, I guess."

"Have you tried?"

"Huh?"

"The phone book," he prompted, gently. There seemed to be amusement in his eyes, all of a sudden. She didn't understand it.

"No, but ... even if that's his legal name, there's no guarantee that he'll be in it. Or that he even lives in New York. Or ..." she trailed off. Vincent was smiling at her.

"Okay, I'll have a look." She pushed her balcony door open and stepped inside. Vincent, to her surprise, followed her. He stopped by the door, however, and stood just inside, one step from the safer zone of her balcony.

She retrieved the white pages and her cordless phone and plunked them down on her table. Much to her lack of surprise, she found no Gaelthide listed. "Nobody here ..."

Vincent was no longer by the door. He had crossed the room and retrieved the yellow pages. Catherine said, quietly, "Those list businesses, Vincent."

He flipped through them anyway.

"Vincent, you won't find him in there," Catherine said, shaking her head. "Vincent, that's ..."

He looked up at her. Very calmly, he said, "Catherine, I do know how to use a phone book."

She blinked. She suddenly had a rather absurd mental image of Vincent at a pay phone. There was no practical reason he _couldn't _use a phone, but it was simply out of character to picture. Vincent was about mystery and myth; somehow, the thought of him making a telephone call damaged that illusion.

He turned back to the book, and continued to page through it. Curious, now, she watched him -- his long, sharp nails whispered across the paper. He turned to the 'J' section: Jewelers.

There was a 'Gaelthide Silversmith' listed, with a small ad claiming custom work and repairs, and also that the shop had been at the same location for twenty-five years.

He handed the book to her. "The name was familiar -- I've seen the shop. It is not far from where Alice Andrews was found." Softly, after a moment, he added, "And where I was found."


	4. Chapter 4

Gaelthide's jewelry shop was located in a run down section of town; a rough and tumble neighborhood that made Catherine glad for the self-defense training she'd taken. She forced herself to be calm; no sense in alarming Vincent, who she knew would sense it if she allowed her nerves to get the better of her.

She had unexpected butterflies, as she approached the store. She had no idea what she would find, but intuition told her it might be important both to the case and to Vincent.

Stomach in a knot, Catherine pushed the door open. Bells on the door jingled, and a man called from the back, "A moment please ..."

His voice was melodic, and lightly accented. After the promised moment he appeared. He was tall, though slender. She couldn't begin to guess an age; clear brown eyes regarded her evenly. His skin was fair and smooth, his hair wavy blond ...

... in Vincent's exact shade and color. He wore his hair back in a pony tail, and it was several inches longer than Vincent's, but she'd know that blond mane anywhere. Catherine's heart skipped a beat, seeing that. What had she stumbled upon, here?

"Aelann Gaelthide?"

"That would be me," he said, with a welcoming smile.

"I'm Cathy Chandler, with the DA's office."

He blinked. Clearly, that had not been what he expected her to say.

She extended a hand across the counter to shake. "I've been assigned an old case to prosecute, and your name has come up."

He brushed her hand with his fingers, then abruptly withdrew, and stared at her. His gaze was clear, piercing. "Well, this is a pleasant surprise. You've been touched by one my people. Nay, more than touched -- you know one of us quite well. With the DA's office, you said? So you live here?"

"I'm not sure what you're talking about when you say 'my people'."

He tilted his head and regarded her with some amusement. "You must be protecting him. It is a him, yes? I can always tell when a young woman bears a mark of protection of one of my people. You could be a handmaiden to one of our ladies, I suppose ... but no. A man, I think. The mark on your soul is one of the purest love and you looked at me with enough appreciation when you entered that I do not think you like women."

"I ..." she had not the foggiest clue what to say.

"Oh, you don't have to tell me his name." Aelann said, holding a hand out, palm up. "I won't ask you to violate your confidences. However, I mention this so that we are on a level playing field -- you know what I am, and I know you know."

"I do _not _know what you are," she said, finally finding her voice. "Would you care to tell me, since you've brought it up?"

"Why, a creature of faery, of course." He seemed surprised she needed to ask.

"Forgive me if I'm skeptical."

"Forgiven," he said, easily, with a small smile that was so very ... Vincent. "You said you were investigating a case?"

"It's about a woman named Alice Andrews."

He blinked, clearly taken aback. "Alice left me twenty-five years ago last month. I haven't seen her since." His reaction was genuine -- real surprise at the name. Then comprehension dawned, and shock, and he shook his head in swift disbelief, "You mentioned a case. It is safe for me to assume, then, she met with foul play?"

"I'm sorry."

"How ..."

"She was murdered. A couple of blocks from here." Catherine said, softly. "Twenty-five years ago."

"I never ..." he blew a sharp breath out. "I was out of the country for a couple of months. I had family business I couldn't put off ... When I left, she seemed happy ... when I returned, it was to a note that she didn't want to be married to a man who couldn't stay home with her." He hunched his shoulders. "She took my son with her. My _son_ ... do you have any news on my son? He was born while I was gone."

Catherine shook her head. She wondered if she was lying when she said, "I'm sorry, no."

Aelann glanced at the shop's door. "I've always hoped he'd walk through that doorway someday. It's why I've never sold the shop. And her, too. I always hoped she'd return to me. Someday."

"Can you prove where you were when she disappeared?"

Aelann gave her a sideways look. "Faery." With bitterness evident in his words, he said, "Try proving _that _to a jury. I assume I'm a suspect, then, because I was married to her? They always look at the husband first."

"You surely don't expect me to believe in ... faery ..." Catherine said, skeptically. Her mind was racing ahead, however. There were so many possibilities here -- including the entirely improbable one that he was telling the truth. _Your boyfriend is half lion, Cathy, _Catherine thought, with some private amusement. _Faery being real is not much harder to swallow._

"You know one of us," Aelann pointed out. "You're under his protection. That's not something we extend lightly to mortals."

"Was Alice under your protection?" She didn't answer his questions about being a suspect. Logically, he was. He knew it, she knew it. There was no point in discussing it.

"She was my _wife_," he said, bleakly. He clenched a fist. "You must understand how upsetting this is to me. I've convinced myself for twenty-five years that she just simply left me. That was easier to believe than that ... well, I thought she would bring the boy back. To meet me. Someday. And she never did. I thought he would have questions only I could answer. And I've wondered these last few years how he was doing -- one of our kind, and even a halfling would be more fey than human, you must understand -- living in the world above? It must be terribly hard for him."

"The world above?" The phrasing gave her a cold chill.

"It's what we call the mortal world. Because faery is found within hollow hills, in legend." He twisted his lips into a smile that held no humor and no joy. She realized she had destroyed any joy in his soul with this news of the death of his estranged wife. "Though the truth in the legends is often small."

"You call her your wife -- were you married?"

He held up his hand, the fingers turned towards her, displaying an elegant silver wedding band. "Yes. Legally, by human law." Again, he made that humorless smile. "There was a justice of the peace involved. And a baby, on the way. I promised her a proper wedding later, in Faery ... eight months later, she left me."

"I'm sorry." His pain, and grief, still fresh after twenty-five years, was too real. In her mind, he wasn't a suspect. Logically, he should be. But her intuition said 'no.' This man, who still wore his wife's ring twenty-five years after she had left him, was not a murderer. Possibly, he was certifiable, but he was no murderer.

He was regarding her evenly. "I'd like to offer my help to find the killer. Surely, you must know what the worth of an offer by one of the daoine sidhe is, in a matter like this. I have ... resources."

"I can't allow that." Catherine shook her head. "I appreciate the offer, but no ..."

"... then you must understand that I shall be looking for the killer on my own." There was a deadly glint to his eyes. "Faery justice is ... clever, and I have more faith in my ability to make the man who killed her pay than any punishment that the mortal world will dispense."

Catherine finally said, in relative exasperation, "I have a friend who isn't normal, Aelann. But I've never heard _anyone _talk about faery as you are. He certainly has never mentioned it."

Aelann blinked, slowly, and in real surprise. "Oh, my. I assumed you knew. I've never seen anyone with a mark on them that didn't know all about us. Marks on mortals are so very rare ..."

"I didn't know anything."

He frowned.

"What's a mark?"

"Your friend, he has made a link to you. If anything happens to you, or if you are even frightened, he will know. And, if he's a typical sidhe, he'll _shred _anyone who dares to touch you."

"I'm ..." she stopped. It was all too much. He'd pretty much accurately described Vincent's bond with her. There just might be a grain of truth in his words.

He scratched his jaw. "You must think me a madman, now, if you didn't know about us. I am babbling about faery and sidhes and -- you truly know nothing? I should have words with this protector of yours, who would mark you without you truly knowing what it means."

"That might be quite interesting," Catherine allowed.

He huffed a sigh. "We should begin with proof that I am what I say I am ..."

And suddenly, the man standing before her was no longer mortal. He was something more ... something so much, much more. Ageless beauty, delicate and refined. He was tall, slender, high cheekbones and a narrow jaw. Sharp teeth glinted when he spoke. He was far too beautiful to be mortal; far too ethereal to be real. His hair was the only thing which had not changed. With dark humor, he asked, "Proof enough for you?"

"Umm."

And then his illusion -- his glamour? -- was back in place. "Ask your protector to show you his true form. He should have done so, before claiming you as his."

"I believe I've seen his true form," Catherine said, with perfect honesty. "That ... you must understand, this is all a remarkable shock. My friend doesn't know what he is."

Aelann was silent. Suspicion glinted in his eyes. "I'd like to meet your friend. Could you arrange this?"

"I'll ask him."

"Thank you." Aelann tilted his head, in graceful acknowledgement. "Now, I imagine you want to know about enemies that we may have had ..."

"That would be helpful," Catherine said.

"My ex," Aelann said, promptly. "She would be my first choice. Unfortunately, she's faery, and if she is the killer and not a mortal, then there is nothing mortal justice can do. Punishment will be mine to dispense."

"You have an ex."

"After five hundred and thirty years," he said blackly, "I have lots of exes. Ihlred, however, is the most logical suspect. I intend to pursue that now. The only reason I never investigated her before is that she would make sure that I suffered, for the crime of loving another. Because I never knew their fate I thought I was safe in assuming that she was not involved."

"Suffered?"

He sighed. "My son, most likely ... I had convinced myself that Alice has simply left me, because I could not stomach the thought of what she would do to the boy."

"A punishment?"

"A curse, a mutilation, some sort of dark evil -- to make me hurt, you understand. The worst thing you can do to a parent is to hurt their child. She would have exacted vengeance on me through the child. It is odd, however, that she has not brought Alice's fate, and my son's, to my attention yet."

"I ..." Catherine trailed off. _I think you need to meet Vincent, _she thought. But didn't say. It wasn't her decision to make. It was Vincent's.

_A curse_.

Aelann said, quietly, "Curses can be broken; damage can be undone. I only wish I knew where the boy was now. I doubt she would have killed him outright ... she probably expected me to know of Alice's fate right away, not knowing that because Alice had left me, I never knew she ..." his voice lowered. "... she died."


	5. Chapter 5

Vincent leaned on the railing for a long moment before spinning to face her. "You believe this man is my _father_?"

"I think it is highly likely. I think you should talk to him and make your own decisions on the matter."

"Faery." Vincent said, flatly. "You expect me to believe in magic."

Catherine lifted an eyebrow at him. "Looked in a mirror lately, Vincent?"

Perhaps it was a bit more sarcastic than she normally would be with Vincent, but his frank dismissal of the idea of _faery _was annoying. He had not seen what she had. "He wants to meet you. I have not told him what I suspect. I thought you could decide to disclose that, at your own discretion."

She also hadn't told Vincent about a curse. That he could be the way he was because of foul magic ... even she found that hard to believe. _Curses could be broken_, Aelann had said.

"Vincent, I think you should meet him. If only because he seems to know something of the nature of the bond between us. The rest could be lies, but he _did _sense the bond. He may know something."

"He may be dangerous." Vincent turned back to the balcony railing and leaned again on it, clawed hands clutching the stonework. "If he _is _what he says, and I am quite skeptical of such fantastic story, creatures of faery are tricksters. Either he's lying and cannot be trusted, or he's what he says he is -- and cannot be trusted either."

"He might be dangerous, yes. I've seen you ." Catherine caught his gaze, and then stepped closer. She rested a hand on his chest and looked up at him. "Vincent, are you scared about learning the truth of what you are?"

"I ..." he wrapped his arms around her and pulled her into a tight embrace. Raggedly, he confessed, "I'm terrified, Catherine."

"I know," she whispered. It hadn't been much of a confession: he was a lot better at reading her emotions than vice versa, but she'd both seen and felt the fear in him. "Why are you so frightened?"

"I do not even know."

She leaned back, a little, to see his face. His eyes were closed, and his jaw set -- she could see the muscles standing out in sharp relief under the dense downy hair of his furred face. She wanted to kiss him, in that moment: to tell him it would be alright. She wanted him to know that she didn't care what, or who, he was; it only mattered that she loved him.

He leaned forward and pressed a kiss not to her lips as she would have liked, but to the top of her head. "Catherine, there is this small bit of amusement -- can you picture Father's reaction?"

She snickered. She couldn't help it. Then Vincent was chuffing a laugh too, and his arms were tight around her still. "I propose that we do not tell him of this development until after we know for sure, one way or another, who this Aelann is."

---------

In the end, they decided to meet at her apartment. Catherine pointed out that it was safer than the park, which was perilously close to the Tunnel entrances. Aelann's home and shop would not be safe. And Catherine Chandler was in the phone book -- he could find her easily, if he wanted to, later.

Vincent paced restlessly, the length of her balcony, while they waited for the purported elf to arrive. His cloak swung around his ankles and he had his arms folded. She wanted to comfort him, but didn't know how.

Her doorbell rang.

She turned to answer it; Aelann was in the hall. Without the counter at the jewelry store between them, he seemed taller and more imposing. He'd also let his hair down -- the thick golden waves looked even more like Vincent's mane now.

"Your friend is not here yet?"

"He's here," Catherine glanced at the balcony. "Vincent, this is Aelann."

Vincent stepped into view, and then pushed the door open. He had his hood up, concealing his face, and his arms were folded warily over his chest. He was tense -- given half an excuse, he'd bolt.

"Hello," Aelann said, "you're very young. I had not realized her friend was so very young."

Vincent stopped and shot Catherine an uncertain glance sideways, from the shadows of his cloak.

"Catherine says you claim to be daoine sidhe," Vincent finally said.

"I _am _daoine sidhe."

"I am sorry if I seem skeptical. The only faeries I have ever known were in a Midsummer Night's Dream."

"I adore that play. It's so very cute." Aelann smiled. "But your girlfriend claims you know nothing of what you are?"

"No," Vincent said. "I was found, as an infant."

Aelann blinked. He shot Catherine an uncertain look, clearly put off balance by this news. "What is your name?"

"Vincent." He still was hiding his face.

Aelann suddenly dropped his glamour. Vincent, startled, jerked his head up and stared, as his hood fell back. He was so shocked that he forgot to cover his face. Aelann ... there was something inhumanly beautiful about Aelann, without his concealing illusions. And he was unmistakably _other_.

Aelann's reassuring smile slipped when he saw Vincent's face. Then, he chuckled, and an expression of black amusement touched his lips. "Vincent?" he said, stepping closer. "You truly do not know what you are?"

"I thought, an experiment perhaps ..."

"Nay." Aelann stopped a foot away. They were the same height. Aelann was thinner, far more elegant -- Vincent was power and muscle; Aelann was grace and slender agility. Catherine, however, was struck by the similarities of their eyes and their hair. "Nay, no experiment. You're a halfling, most certainly. Tell me, you were found? Where?"

Vincent hesitated. "In a dumpster, by Saint Vincent's. The day your wife was found dead, and only a few blocks away."

Aelann turned his attention to Catherine. "You didn't mention this to me."

"It was Vincent's decision to tell."

"What am I?" Vincent asked, quietly.

"I think ... yes." Aelann reached a hand out to touch Vincent. Vincent flinched back, reflexively. Aelann, startled, dropped his hand. "I am sorry. I merely want to touch you to confirm what I suspect ... as I am certain you are aware, our abilities are stronger on physical contact."

"Abilities?"

"Ah, but you are young and untrained." Aelann held a hand out. "Vincent, touch my hand. Please. I need to confirm something."

Hesitantly, Vincent reached out. His clawed hand slid into Aelann's slender one.

There was a brilliant flare of light. Vincent jerked back with a snarl -- pure reflex; Catherine felt shocking pain from him, across their bond. It felt as if he'd stuck a hand into an electric socket. Aelann cursed in a fluid, liquid language, shook his fingers, and said, "That is a potent curse."

"A curse." Vincent spoke from across the room. Catherine would have laughed, had it been remotely polite to do so -- Vincent was clearly torn between curiosity and disgust. He smiled.

"Well, of course." Aelann said, with a bit of a smile. "And a rather classic one."

He seemed to have found some private amusement. "You'll die, eventually, of course. Unless you break the curse. First will come fevers, nightmares of a most bestial nature, and then madness and a loss of your abilities. And then, finally, death."

"Can you break it?" Catherine said, uncertainly.

"No," Aelann shook his hand. "I just tried. I am a warrior prince, not a wizard."

"A prince?" Vincent barked a laugh.

"And you," Aelann said, with a smile that was real, and genuine, and held nothing of the private and black amusement or sad sorrow she had seen on his lips, "and you ... Vincent, my kind, our kind, are so very rare in this modern world. With what you have told me, and with what I see -- why, you are certainly my infant son all grown."

Catherine went to Vincent, then, because she could feel the shattering shock radiating off of him in waves. He wrapped his arms around her shoulders, drawing calm from her -- Vincent, who was normally a pool of gentle strength, was shaken to his core. Aelann said, with a that same smile, "I am astonished you have not figured out how to break the curse yourselves."

"Break the curse?" Vincent demanded.

"Ihlred cursed you to punish me," Aelann said. "Ihlred is my ex wife and the reason why I live in the mortal world -- she has never forgiven me for the divorce." He scratched his nose. "The curst of the beast -- it's a terrible one. She would believe that no sidhe would take the time to grow to love a mate who looks as you do, and in the mortal world, among humans ... the same would apply, with the problem compounded by superstition and fear."

His eyes fell on Catherine. "Ihlred forgets how the legends end. There is _always _a princess, brave and pure, who sees past the exterior and comes to love the beast."

Vincent's snort made Aelann jump. "You're telling me I'm a ... a ... living faery tale?"

"No stranger an explanation than any other you've been given, I would guess," Aelann said.

"So how do we break the curse?" Catherine asked. "You said we can do it."

He laughed, low and amused. "Oh, my dear, I think I'll let you two figure that one out on your own. Neither of you seem to be illiterate, and you still have a little time -- though Vincent, you have been experiencing the nightmares, yes?"

He looked away and said, very low, "For awhile."

"Best get on it, then." Aelann said. Again, there was that bubbling amusement in his eyes.

"You're not going to tell us how to break the curse?" Vincent said, in disbelief.

Catherine chuckled, suddenly. "Tell me, Aelann, you said the curse is classic?"

"Yes, that it is."

"Catherine?" Vincent said, uncertainly.

"I think I know." She rested her forehead against his shoulder. "He doesn't need to say anything more. Except -- Aelann, Vincent will be normal?"

"More fey than human, but yes. He will be able to walk among the world above and none will look at him twice save perhaps to note the handsome man among them. Our kind are generally very attractive -- and he is my son, of course."

"Of course," Vincent echoed, thinly.

Aelann stepped forward, as if to hug his son and Catherine two. Catherine felt Vincent stiffen. Aelann, instead, held a hand out again. "No magic this time, I promise."

Vincent grasped his hand. The two men stared at each other for a long, uncertain moment. Then, slowly, Vincent smiled. "You must forgive me if I am a bit ... uncertain ... as to how to proceed. This is a tremendous surprise, to say the least."

Aelann inclined his head. "A pleasant one, at least in my case. I had hoped that you lived -- and your mother -- at least half my dreams came true, in you."

"Can you tell me about her?" Vincent said, suddenly, with real eagerness. "Tell me about my mother?"

"Of course."

"Maybe we should sit." Catherine gestured at the couch.

Vincent might have found an excuse to retreat, at that moment, but Aelann gracefully accepted her invitation and settled on one end of the couch. That left Vincent no polite choice but to take the other end. Catherine, with a smile, said, "Tea or coffee or cocoa?"

"Oh, cocoa." Aelann grinned at her. "With those little marshmallows, by any chance?"

"I just stocked up. Cocoa it is, for both of you."

-----------


	6. Chapter 6

Much, much later that night, Catherine saw Aelann out and then turned back to find Vincent standing in her apartment still.

"Well." She snuggled into his embrace, in the middle of her living room. "You know, in all the time I've known you, Vincent, you've never ceased to fill my life with surprises. A faery prince in my living room, however, truly takes the cake."

"Two," Vincent said.

"Huh?"

"Two faery princes. If what he says is true." Vincent released her.

She followed him, as he paced restlessly to the balcony's french doors. She was half afraid he'd leave, but he only stood looking through the glass. One hand rested on the window. "Catherine, I've spent my entire life on the outside, looking in at a world not my own."

"He said your appearance ... it could be almost human."

"Close enough to pass, is what he said," Vincent glanced at her. "It frightens me."

"It would be a tremendous change." Her mind raced ahead -- there would be much less danger for him, she thought. He could walk Above with little fear. He could meet her friends, her family. They could have a normal life together -- the life she knew he craved. She saw few downsides to it. He was scared, of course, and man enough to admit it. But she thought it would be a very positive thing for him.

He gestured at his face with one clawed hand. "This is who I am. This is who I have always been, and who I thought I always would be. What Aelann told me ... doesn't seem real."

"It would change your life."

"You want me to be normal, in appearance," he said, quietly.

"Yes, of course ... wait, no!" She saw hurt in his eyes. "Vincent, I _love _you. You are everything to me, and you cannot possibly doubt that. I love you the way you are. I want this curse -- if what Aelann told us is true and it is a curse -- I want it broken for you. He said it will eventually kill you, too. It must be broken."

Vincent looked away from her. He wouldn't meet her eyes.

"Vincent," she said, quietly. "It's your choice. But if what he said was true, and you will die ... I do not know if I could survive losing you. It will destroy me."

"I ... am not ready for this." Vincent turned to face her, finally, and she pressed herself into his arms again. "Will you allow me time?"

"Of course." He combed his fingers through her hair, and tucked her head under his chin, in response to her reassuring words. "Of course, Vincent."

------------------

The park entrance to the Tunnels smelled like earth: rich, dark wet earth. Under that was the odor of water, and a hint of sewage and the rancid runoff from Dumpsters -- unpleasant smells, but storm drains were not the nicest places in the world. A lifetime in the Tunnels had rendered Vincent used to the odors, but never particularly fond of them.

His nose was more sensitive than human to unpleasant smells -- he rarely commented on this, but Vincent knew from experience that it was true. Catherine smelled of roses, to him, and floral scented shampoo.

Vincent guided Catherine over a runnel of water, clawed hand clutching her slim one. She touched him without fear; he marveled at that, sometimes. There was no hesitation, ever, in her responses to him. She was utterly unafraid and completely accepting.

Across the trickle of dirty water, she hugged him briefly, impulsively, and whispered, "It will be okay."

He returned the hug. The feel of her in his arms -- it moved him. It was the pure trust. She had seen him at his utter worst and had trusted him almost from the beginning. More than that, he could sense across the bond between them that she loved him ... and that frightened him.

Or, it had.

He shook his head in confusion. _I could look enough like normal that nobody would ever look twice at me._

It felt unreal. Yet, he'd seen ... he'd seen Aelann, stripped bare of any form of disguise, standing in Catherine's apartment. He'd felt the wild power in Aelann's touch, when the man had tied into something that was tangled around Vincent's very soul. A wild darkness -- he'd always thought it was part of himself, but he had felt that darkness, very briefly, relent. _The Other_, he thought, _That which I have always thought of as The Other ... could that be the substance of this curse he spoke of?_

Catherine wanted to break the curse. He'd felt a sudden flare of hope from her as Aelann had spoken. He wished he felt that too, but there was only fear there. _What if it doesn't work. What if it does, and I am no longer ..._

Catherine stopped. She rested a hand on his arm. "Vincent, you're getting worked up over this, aren't you?"

Her eyes were gentle, reassuring. She said quietly, "It won't change who you are. It will just change the possibilities in your life."

"What if .." he could only have voiced his fears to her. "What if who I am ... is part of the curse? And what if I lose who I am ..."

_I don't always like who I am_, a tiny voice whispered in the back of his head. He would never say that aloud even to Catherine, but she knew. He'd done terrible things; he saw horribly violent images in his dreams. Dreams that were getting worse.

She brushed her knuckles along his jaw. "You are strong, Vincent. You will be _you_, regardless of a curse, or no curse. You are the strongest man I have ever known."

He bowed his head. Through the bond he could sense a reflection of his himself that was surprisingly accurate, and yet, somehow, much _better _than his own self-image. She knew him, warts and all, and she loved everything about him.

"C'mon," she said, "you wanted to tell Father, so let's get it over with."

He wasn't particularly looking forward to that discussion, but he let her hurry him along. She was right: it was best done and over with.

Deeper into the tunnels, the air smelled different. There was no longer the odor of the wastes of Above, just rich, clean earth. Then, as they approached the living areas, he could detect the odor breakfast cooking -- it was past five AM -- and laundry soap, and scented candles. And even though Mouse had gotten very good at engineering chimneys to the surface, there was always the smell of smoke because of the hearths in many of the rooms.

Then they were in the living areas proper. People were just stirring -- they encountered Mary in one of the halls, burdened with an enormous basket of sheets and blankets. He relieved her of her load and made a quick detour to the laundry chamber, then hugged her briefly and asked, "Is Father up yet?"

"Yeah, you know how he's always an early riser. Unlike a certain man I see before me. I'm guessing _you _haven't even been to bed yet." Her eyes were sparkling as she teased him.

Vincent, needled, said, "I had a rather eventful night, Mary. I need to speak to Father."

"Try the library. He said something about researching some schematics -- there's a tunnel on the south side that needs some repairs."

_-----------_

"This is utter madness!" Father exclaimed. "You cannot possibly believe some charismatic man is a prince of faery and you are his son!"

The discussion between Father and Vincent was going about as Vincent had expected: badly. Actually, "discussion" wasn't even all that accurate. Discussion meant an equal sharing of opinions, and mutual respect. This was more like a lecture, and a rather loud one. Father wasn't happy.

"You take too many risks. You never should have met this man. And in Catherine's apartment! He knows you're associated, now. He could hurt her to get to you!"

Catherine said quietly, but in a firm voice that cut across Father's tirade, "He knew about Vincent from the moment I met him. And I've seen him twice now, drop his mortal disguise. He's ... rather convincing, Father."

"And he claims Vincent is his biological son," Father said, skeptically. "His _cursed _biological son."

"It would explain a lot," Catherine said.

Vincent added, quietly, "_You _are my father."

Father, who had his mouth open to respond to Catherine, abruptly shut it. Then he said quietly, "And I want what is best for my son. I do not want you to meet with this madman again, Vincent. Even if he is what he says he is, the stories of faery -- they are full of trickery and deceit. You cannot trust what he tells you is true."

"He wasn't lying," Vincent said. "I ... would have known, I think."

"You're mad," Father said, indignantly. "You can't possibly be considering ... Vincent, this is madness!"

"It scares me," Vincent said, trying for calm. "But Father ... if what he said was true ..."

"What, you'll be normal?" Father snorted. "Vincent, you don't know anything of the world above. You wouldn't last a day up there before getting into some sort of trouble. Don't be foolish ..."

That stung. Vincent shook his head, "Father, I never said I was going to _leave_. And I know more about Above than you credit me for."

"Besides," Catherine said, "he has me."

"You." Father gave Catherine a long, unhappy look. "I can see you two have made a decision here."

"Actually, he hasn't ..." Catherine started to say.

"I have." Vincent said. He sensed Catherine's surprise, and Father gave him a look of the purest displeasure. "I believe there is only one decision -- and it is because what I am, now, currently, endangers all of you, and Catherine, and everyone around me." He closed his eyes and fought down memories of nightmares.

"And he told you how to break this purported curse?" Father said, sounding annoyed.

"Yes," Vincent said. "It's ... rather traditional, actually."

"Bah. I'll see you for dinner, and I don't expect to see you looking any different," Father said, turning his back on them.

Vincent was amused now. "Breakfast, perhaps. I think -- Catherine, shall we meet in your apartment, tonight?"

Better to meet there, he thought, than in his own chambers or the Tunnels somewhere. He wouldn't put it past Father to try to disrupt things. Father didn't approve, but he hadn't expected that. Vincent's own fear of the unknown paled in comparison to Father's extreme dislike of any sort of change.


	7. Chapter 7

Catherine fidgeted nervously, rewashing a patch on her kitchen counter that she had already cleaned a dozen times.

She'd wanted to kiss him for so long ... to embrace him tightly, and passionately, and truly _kiss _him. Vincent had avoided physical intimacy with her for many reasons, she knew. Those reasons ranged from fear of the unknown to his rather poor self-image to a ferocious need to protect her. It had been frustrating -- she'd tried so hard a few times to coax him into kissing her and he'd always deftly avoided it.

_Guess we would have gotten quite the shock had we succeeded, _she thought, amused despite her nerves.

In truth, she wanted to do a lot more than just kiss him. However, that would have to wait until he was ready. Not, likely, tonight.

_Wonder what is really going to happen? _

Restlessly, she fiddled with the radio in her living room -- the Ramones were on one channel, and Michael Jackson on another, then Bette Midler. She kept twiddling until she found a station that played light jazz and returned to cleaning.

Vincent's tap at her balcony door did not come as a shock -- she was, of course, expecting him. Still, she jumped. He had the bond between them shut down so tightly she had not known he was there. She wondered if he had been watching her, and his words then answered that question.

"If your home were any cleaner, it could be used as an operating theater."

"Scared to death," she confessed. He was teasing her, a little; she ducked her head and grinned. "We don't know what will happen."

Vincent stood on the balcony, and he looked at her with considerable concern. "This could be dangerous."

"It could be," she agreed. "But we're going to do it anyway."

"This could be very selfish of me."

"Or not." She stepped closer, caught his hands, and tugged him inside. "Vincent, you are willing to change everything about your life for the benefit of those around you. That is not selfish. Allow me to take the risk with you."

Still, he wanted to argue: she saw that in his face, in the stubborn set of his jaw. But she also noted he was wearing his best Winterfest garb -- the ruffled shirt, nice jeans, furred boots. He'd dressed up for this -- he'd worn his finest clothing just for a kiss.

Inside, she pulled the drapes. He stood uncertainly in the middle of her living room, shifting his weight from one foot to another. He looked like he wanted to run away, but he was standing his ground.

She realized she had absolutely no idea how to begin. Oh, she knew how to kiss -- _she _was no virgin. Unlike Vincent, she'd had a few lovers. But how to start with Vincent, who was looking at her with mixed fear and awe in his eyes now?

"I love you," he murmured.

Well, that was an appropriate start. "Whatever happens, I love you," she echoed back. She stepped closer, and he caught his her fingers in his hands.

He pulled her hands up close to his hear and looked down at her, and whispered softly, "I've dreamed of this moment, you know. I never dared think I would actually kiss you, but I've dreamed."

"Sometimes dreams have happy endings." She pulled her hands free of his grasp and slid her fingers behind his neck, under that glorious mane of blond hair.

His hands settled on her hips, and he pulled her closer. The lacy shirt he was wearing had a good bit less bulk than his normal attire of a quilted vest, sweater, and cloak. She could feel the play of fur under fabric when she pressed against him, and underneath the fur, hard muscles and ever-so-carefully restrained power.

He could shred her from limb to limb ... instead, he was running his claws through her hair and meeting her gaze with shy, frightened eyes.

She saw everything in those eyes: a lifetime of fear, of hiding, of pain and sorrow and darkness. He had thought the rest of his life would be much the same, lightened only by those in the Tunnels he loved ... and by the bright spark in his world that was her.

"Vincent ..."

He dipped his head down and kissed her, his lips pressing to hers. This was not the chaste kiss she'd half-expected he would bestow upon her. Instead, he poured his heart out to her -- lips to lips, tongue to tongue, while his arms held her fiercely close. She felt his breathing grow rapid and could hear her own heart thudding in his chest.

Oh, he was a little clumsy -- it was his first kiss. However, the feeling, the emotion, the _truth_, behind that kiss was all that mattered. He loved her. Heart, body, and soul, he loved her. And her feelings were wholly mutual.

Finally, breathlessly, they parted.

"Nothing ..." he shook his head, and there was sudden, bitter disappointment on his face. "Nothing happened."

He ran a hand over his face, as if double checking. Then he let go of her, and spun away. "It didn't work."

She realized he'd let himself dream ... dream of a life that wasn't one of hiding and fear and danger for himself and those he loved. He would have been able to join her Above, to be a part of her life ... and the dream had just been dashed.

"I'm sorry."

"Father was right. I'm a fool for believing a madman. I should go ... I have errands I should run tonight."

"Vincent." Her voice stopped him, as he turned towards the door. "Wait."

"What?" he said, a little brusquely.

"Let's not waste this night." She knew he shouldn't be alone right now -- that the 'errands' was the thinnest of pretexts to go away somewhere and brood. "Stay with me? Please?"

"I should ..."

The kiss had unleashed something in her heart. Emboldened by the passion he had shown, she put her arms back around his neck. When he resisted her tug, she stood on her tiptoes and kissed him again. "Don't go. Please. Even if ... I love you like you are now, Vincent. That's what matters. Not any of the rest."

With a sudden shudder he embraced her again. "Catherine ..." he murmured. "You're not repulsed at all?"

"Does this feel like disgust?" she stroked his jaw with her hand. "I love you as you are, Vincent."

"I could hurt you," he murmured, even as he gently drew his clawed hands down her back.

"You could," she agreed. "But you won't."

She hadn't really intended to go beyond just another kiss. But Vincent's lips were on hers and his hands were roaming her back, and sliding up and down her arms, and he was suddenly making little urgent noises into her mouth as he kissed her. When finally he pulled back she saw, and sensed, to the very core of his heart ... she knew just how lonely, and insecure, and terribly afraid that he often was.

This would not stop with a kiss. He needed her, she realized -- even if he might say he didn't want it, his heart spoke otherwise. He had to know that she accepted him completely, just as he was. He might protest that she could not share a life with him. He might say she deserved better. But he _needed _her.

"I should ... should go ..." he was pulling away, even as she realized just how desperately afraid he was.

"Vincent," she said, "I want you to stay with me. Tonight."

He was undecided -- poised for flight, but drawn to what she was offering.

"I want you."

Had she said, _I need you_, in echo of his own heart, she thought he would have left. He would have denied her needs -- and his -- and left, then. But _I want_ was different. It implied she had a choice, and she had chosen him.

She caught both his hands and led him, walking backwards herself, towards the bedroom. He followed, quivering with tension, and when she glanced down, she saw that there was a bulge in his jeans.

What followed was clumsy; Vincent was inexperienced, awkward, and scared that he would lose control and hurt her. He was far gentler than he needed to be, and very hesitant to take the initiative. However, she felt something lessening in him -- as they touched, as she encouraged him towards passion and intimacy, something terrible and dark inside his soul began to lessen.

Finally, he shuddered to completion inside her and then lay next to her, breathing hard, eyes closed, and one arm around her waist. His head rested on her shoulder, and just before he drifted off to sleep, he slid a leg across her thighs.

She snuggled into that embrace. He was holding her as if he never wanted to let her go again.

---------


	8. Chapter 8

The problem with slumbering while entangled in a lover's embrace is that, no matter how comfortable it is, body parts tend to go numb after awhile. Catherine woke to one arm that was so deeply asleep that she couldn't even move the fingers.

Vincent was still snuggled against her, still draped across her. His weight, while pleasant, had cut the circulation off in her arm. She shifted carefully, trying to pull free without waking him. However, the moment she moved, she felt a change in his breathing that told her she'd roused him.

"Mmm." He said, fuzzily, "Catherine ... it's dawn."

Past dawn, she realized. Sun streamed in through her kitchen windows. It was closer to noon than morning. He grumbled, "Father will worry about me. I promised to meet him for breakfast."

"Father always worries," she pointed out. She stroked his back with her good hand; the other was waking up to painful pins and needles. "But I can call a Helper, and have somebody send word down that you're with me, and that you're fine."

He still hadn't lifted his head from her shoulder. He tightened his grip on her. "Catherine ... last night ... I must have been out of my mind."

"No," she stroked his hair. "Not out of your mind. Simply in love."

"Love, some claim, is a kind of madness. I'm not inclined to necessarily disagree." He chuffed a laugh into her hair.

"I have no regrets." She shifted, then winced, as her hand exploded with the sensation of fiery pins and needles.

"What? Did I hurt you!?" He jerked away at her sudden, vicious, intake of breath.

"My hand's asleep, that's all." She shook it in the air, trying to drive the blood back into it.

He caught it with his own hands, and started to massage it.

She stared at his fingers.

No hair. His hands were smooth, callused, but the downy hair that had covered the backs of his hands and knuckles was entirely gone.

"Vincent ..." she breathed, low and disbelieving.

He blinked at her. Then he looked at his hands again. He released her fingers -- she'd forgotten about the pain of a numb hand returning to life, in any event. Astonished, he held his palms up before his eyes, then flipped them over and stared at the back of his hands.

His head was too close to hers to see clearly. "Vincent, sit up."

He did. The covers fell down to his waist, revealing a man who actually had less body hair than average, just a dark stripe from his groin to his navel. He was built, with muscles that would do a competitive body builder proud -- well, she'd known that, having hugged him a thousand times and having touched him, skin to bare skin, last night.

And his face ... she couldn't help but stare. He was still, somehow, Vincent. Had she seen him unexpectedly, walking down the sidewalk in a crowd, she would have known him. The structure of his bones had not changed much -- he still had high, prominent cheekbones, a strong jaw, and wide, intelligent eyes. There was still a hint of _feline _in his face -- but the cleft lip was gone, the hair was gone, and when he hesitantly touched his teeth with an index finger, she saw his fangs had been replaced by blunt human canines.

"I ..." he trailed off. Then he said, with a helpless laugh, "... I suppose there's a grain of truth in every legend?"

"Maybe," she said. She couldn't help but touch his face. He was _Vincent_ ... and yet, he was utterly normal in appearance. Well -- not utterly normal. He was strikingly handsome.

He rose, and padded naked into her bathroom. She scrambled to her feet and followed. He stared into her bathroom mirror, poking at his face with one blunt finger. "It worked, Catherine ..." he turned to face her, then blinked, and realized she, too, was naked.

She saw him blush. It was the first time she'd ever actually seen his skin flush that way; the fur had hidden it, before.

"I found you quite handsome, before," she said, quietly. "I want you to know I was as attracted to you then, as I am now. Nothing has changed in my heart -- because it is what is in _your _heart that I am drawn to.."

"That was the key." He averted his eyes from her nakedness -- he looked around for something to occupy his gaze, found the mirror, and stared into it again. "Knowing you ... knowing you accepted me as I am ... I think that was the key. We thought it could not work, and yet, you still wanted _all _of me. I think that might have been what broke the curse. Not the s-sex, so much as the ... acceptance."

He met her eyes in the mirror. And then his gaze, still watching her in the glass, dropped lower. She watched him blush again -- even the back of his shoulders, below the line of his mussed blond hair, turned pink.

"Vincent?" She stepped closer, wrapped her arms around his waist, and pressed herself against his back. He went stiff -- probably, in more ways than one, given that she was pressing her breasts against the middle of his back. But his muscles were rigid at the contact. "It's okay to look at me, you know. I love you. I'll take it as a compliment if you stare."

"I ..." she heard him swallow. "Catherine ..."

Vincent was completely inexperienced, but Catherine had a few lovers prior to him. She slid her hands up his chest, stopped at his nipples, and rubbed her fingers in circles. Suddenly, he twisted around in her arms, and she was right -- she most definitely had his attention.

About an hour later, he wasn't blushing anymore.

-----------

By noon, they were dressed. He sat at her kitchen table, looking remarkably mundane. She'd called one of the Helpers in Chinatown, who had cheerfully agreed to run a message to Father that Vincent was fine.

Impishly, Catherine added, "Tell Father I said 'it worked', will you?"

"What worked?" The woman asked, curiously.

"Just give him that message. He'll know what I mean. Though -- if you want some great gossip, show up in the tunnels tonight. Vincent has something to show everyone."

"Catherine," Vincent protested mildly, "You know that Father is going to be furious that you've only sent him that much information. You should probably have told him more."

"Payback," she said, with a grin, "for not believing you."

"Perhaps," he said, with a shy smile.

"So, what do you want to do?"

"Do?" he rose, and walked to her sunlit balcony. He hesitated a long moment, before stepping outside into the daylight. "I want to walk down a sidewalk, and have no one stare."

"Well ..." she said, judiciously, "... we might need to take you shopping."

He glanced down at his shirt. His jeans would pass, and his boots ... well, his boots looked like they'd been purchased at a Renfaire, but they were not entirely impossible. However, his shirt and cloak were distinctly odd. His lips turned up in an amused smile. "I see your point. But I have no money ..."

"My treat. This is going to be fun," she said.

"... I can't let you ..."

"Vincent," she said, very seriously, "I'd like to introduce you to my friends, my boss, everyone! We can do that now. But if you show up in tunnel clothes, there will be questions."

"Meet your friends?" he breathed out.

"Of course!"

--------------

Vincent was nervous, once they left her apartment. People _were _noticing him -- this was New York, however, and mostly they were _not _looking at him. They were doing the I-don't-see-the-weirdo eye slide sideways that all city dwellers learned sometime between preschool and first grade.

However, he was also gorgeous. And that was earning him the occasional look of frank appreciation.

"Ever ride a subway before?" she whispered, as they waited on a platform.

"Yes," he whispered back, shifting from foot to foot. She knew he wanted to run away. However, he was stubbornly standing his ground amid a crowd of complete strangers. "However, I've never been inside one."

"Ummm ..." she thought that one through. It sounded incredibly dangerous. "How about I give you a roll of quarters and the next time you need to find me in a hurry, you catch a ride legally?"

He chuckled. "Why don't you avoid getting into trouble in the first place? I worry I will not be able to find you in time. And it would destroy me to lose you."

He had a point. There was mild rebuke in his voice.

But then he fell silent, hugging himself. She slid an arm around his waist, wanting to give comfort -- the crowd on the subway platform was growing larger as they waited for the next train to arrive. Vincent was practically vibrating with fear.

She thought of the number of times she'd seen him dart into the shadows, or around a corner, because a single stranger was coming. He'd spent most of his life hiding, avoiding anyone he didn't know. And that had been a fear born out by the actions of evil people -- he'd been hurt, more than once, by strangers. It was reasonable for him to be afraid.

"It'll be okay," she whispered. "Trust me."

He exhaled a ragged sigh. "This goes against all my instincts, Catherine."

Inside the subway car, he stood very near the exit, clutching the railing. She sat beside him, and somehow, her heart warmed a little more when he held his free hand out to her, seeking her support.

She took him to a department store, first.

"I've never ridden an escalator," he said, in bemusement, stepping onto the moving stairs to the second floor.

There were escalators all over city. Somehow, that confession drove home just how isolated he had been all his life.

On the second floor, there was a Santa Claus and a line of children waiting for his lap. Vincent stopped to stare at Santa, watching from a distance. She wondered if the Tunnels ever had Saint Nick visit -- had Vincent, as a child, ever sat on Santa's lap and whispered his wishes?

A little boy, no older than two, plowed into Vincent's legs, unexpectedly. He clutched Vincent's knees and stared upwards, eyes wide, mouth open. The boy's mother, pursuing the child, scooped him up.

"Do not be ..." Vincent started to say. Don't be frightened, I won't hurt you, it's okay. I'm not a monster.

The woman said, at the same instant, "Sorry. He's a bit hyper with all the sugar he's eaten today. Let's go, Johnny."

Vincent blinked, and watched them go. She could read his mind, in that instant: _They weren't afraid of me. _

The woman glanced over her shoulder, as she walked away. Catherine read that look, too, though she wasn't sure if Vincent realized that the woman was giving him an appreciative once-over. He might be wearing a ruffled shirt that would have looked at home at a Victorian ball, however, he was one very good looking man.

"C'mon," she said, "let's go."

In the men's clothing section, she made a guess at his size and sent him into the fitting room to try on some long-sleeved plaid shirts. Pastels were in, this year, and wide collars; when he emerged, wearing one, she gave him a thumb's up. "Looks good."

He eyed himself in the mirror, and said nothing.

She bought him another pair of jeans, while she was at it, as there was a Holiday sale on. And gloves with fingers -- he'd worn fingerless gloves for his entire life because of his sharp nails. And she found him shoes -- Redwing work boots, because he could wear them below, but they would not stand out Above like his homemade shoes did. She supposed her friends would think she was dating a blue collar man, but somehow, she thought it would be a lot easier for Vincent to pass as some sort of laborer than a suit.

Dressed in his new outfit, they ate lunch at a little cafe with streetside tables. Vincent took everything in -- the Sunday morning traffic, the busy people.

A boy wearing ripped jeans and safety pins in his ears, and a mohawk, strutted past. The boombox on his shoulder blasted heavy metal: Metallica. Moments later, Vincent stared at a girl with a pony tail sticking sideways out, above one ear. Her jeans were also ripped, and she had pink highlights in her hair. She was listening to a Walkman -- she stopped, briefly, to flip the cassette tape over and reinsert it.

Three children with skateboards whizzed past.

Then it was a couple of women on roller skates, one moving backwards. At the curb, she tried to moonwalk on the toes of the skates and fell on her rump -- her friend laughed and offered her a hand up. The woman still standing was wearing only one glove, covered in sequins. Her sarcastic comment floated back to them: "Like, radical move, girlfriend ..."

A mime sat up shop across the street.

Everything seemed to interest him -- he watched with frank curiosity, though he asked few questions. She supposed he'd seen streetlife from the shadows before, but never during the day from a table at a pleasant little cafe.

Later, as they walked back to her apartment, he stopped to stare at movie posters in the window of a theater: Beetlejuice was playing. He regarded the poster with an expression she couldn't begin to interpret.

"Want to catch a movie?" she suggested, impulsively.

Vincent was silent for a moment. "Perhaps with your friends along?" he said, after a moment's long thought. He stared at the poster a moment longer. "But not that one."

Apparently, Beetlejuice was not to his taste. Well, she wasn't surprised. There was a silly, probably forgettable, chick-flick playing as well. Perhaps that would be something he would like better. Vincent was more of a romantic at heart than she was, when you got right down to it.

It had taken him an amazing amount of courage to suggest _going to the movies,_ she thought -- but also, a certain amount of social astuteness. He confirmed her guess that he was thinking ahead by saying, "I understand that you wish me to meet your friends, but I don't wish to be the center of attention, Catherine."

_Don't parade me around on display_, she translated. If there was a _movie_ involved, the movie would be the focus of the outing. That would be a much different dynamic than inviting everyone over to her apartment, pointing at Vincent, and saying, "Hey! This is the boyfriend I've had for the last year, that you've never met!"

At which point, Vincent would probably run fleeing back to the Tunnels, having reached a certain breaking point. Right.

Sadly, she realized, too, that he might _look _normal now -- but a lifetime of being a pariah, an outcast, had left a mark on his soul that would take much longer to heal. If it ever did.

------------


	9. Chapter 9

They returned to the tunnels at dusk -- Vincent was still wearing the plaid shirt she'd bought him, but he'd slipped into his cloak and he had the hood flipped up over his head. It was impossible to tell that there was anything different about him.

He led the way to Father's library, but didn't quite make it there before running into someone. Mary hailed him, "Oh, Vincent, do you have a moment to help me carry the laundry up? It should be dry by now."

He hesitated. Then he said, "Mary, something has happened."

She stopped, and looked keenly at the cloaked figure of the man she'd known since infancy. Vincent hesitantly reached shaking fingers up and pushed his hood back.

Mary recoiled. "You're not Vincent!"

"Wait!" he said.

"Wait!" Catherine echoed, in almost the same instant. "Mary, he is. It's something wonderful ..."

"... something uncanny," Vincent said, sounding a good bit less thrilled than Catherine had expected.

Mary hesitated. He _sounded _like Vincent. And, when Catherine looked sideways at him, she saw his body language was exactly like it should be.

"It is me," Vincent said, quietly, "Mary, would Catherine bring a stranger here?"

Mary crept closer, eyes wide. "Vincent?"

"Magic. It was magic." Vincent closed his eyes, as, disbelievingly, she touched his face.

"Vincent, this is amazing."

"That's pretty much what my reaction was," Catherine said. "Isn't it astonishing how he looks like Vincent, still?"

"Yes." Mary studied him, critically. "His cheekbones are the same, I think. And the line of his jaw."

Vincent jerked his chin up, clearly uncomfortable with their scrutiny.

"Oh my God." Father's voice hit a peculiar note that Catherine had never heard before. "So it is true!"

Vincent spun about. "Father ..."

"God, Vincent, look at you." Father hurried closer. "What happened ..."

Vincent blushed.

Catherine blushed.

Father snorted. He'd known a kiss was supposed to free Vincent from their curse; any fool could tell by their reactions that it had gone beyond 'kissing.' "Nevermind. This is remarkable. Vincent, you could walk down a city street and nobody would ever look at you twice."

"He has," Catherine said. "Today."

Father gave them both the darkest of glares. "That was quite risky. You know nothing of the ... magic ... that touched him. What if something else happened?"

"Nothing happened," Vincent said, "Except that I had a sandwich at a cafe and we watched people walk by. It was very ..." he hesitated, "I think it was very normal."

--------

"No! Absolutely not!" A half hour later, after taking Vincent's vitals and a quick physical exam, Father found out about their plans to meet Catherine's friends for a movie.

"Why not?" Catherine asked, calmly.

"He doesn't know _anything _of the world above! He'll give himself away within the moment!" Father punctuated this statement by thumping his cane against the ground.

"He can learn," Catherine said, smiling at Vincent. "I'll teach him. There's so much I want to show him."

Vincent, uncharacteristically quiet during the argument, finally spoke up. "I'm not a fool, Father. And I know more than you would expect."

"You have duties, down here, anyway," Father said, after an exasperated sigh. "We need you tomorrow, all day, to work on the south tunnel repairs. We're worried about a collapse that might breach an active steam tunnel."

Vincent frowned. "That sounds serious."

"And you also promised to help with the children, and the Midsummer Night's Dream production. Just because you've ..." Father hesitated, "... you still have responsibilities, and you're still a part of this community. This changes nothing."

"Well," Catherine said, "except that you can have Vincent run errands in broad daylight now."

Father gave her a dirty look, eyes narrowing. She suddenly felt guilty, though she knew she had nothing to feel guilty _for. _She'd meant to be funny, but neither men were in laughing moods.

Vincent sighed. "He is right, Catherine. If that steam tunnel is breached, it could be disastrous. Anyone in the area might be badly hurt. And I did promise the children that I would help. Perhaps -- next weekend? Saturday?"

"I've assigned you kitchen duty that day, Vincent," Father said.

"That evening, then." Vincent turned to Catherine, and smiled, then said to Father, "Unless you have any other objections?"

He grumbled, but could find none other than to say he thought it was a very bad idea.

---------------

He walked her back to her apartment. He was sober, and unsmiling, and she said, "You're worried, aren't you?"

"Father thinks he could lose me," Vincent said, standing in her sub-basement. "He fears that I would leave the Tunnels, that I will be drawn away by the world above."

"That was pretty obvious, by his behavior," Catherine rested her head against his shoulder. "But the Tunnels are your life."

"Yes," he murmured. "That they are. Still ... I feel as if I have been given a golden key, allowing me to open many gates of possibilities. Perhaps he is right to worry about me. I am concerned, now, that I will grow foolhardy ..."

"You? Never."

He smiled, now. "Your faith in is awe-inspiring at times, Catherine."

And he kissed her. And it didn't matter what he looked like; to her, he was simply Vincent, and he was kissing her.

----------------

"Radcliffe!" Tuesday, two days later, Joe's voice broke her out of a pleasant daydream.

She blinked, and realized she'd been staring out the window for several minutes. Catherine turned her attention to Joe, who was smiling at her. "Thinking about someone?" he teased.

"Actually, yes," she confessed.

"Oh, this mystery boyfriend of yours?" he sipped his coffee. "The office betting pool is up to fifty bucks that you've got one."

"Vincent." She reached for the stack of folders on her desk. She needed to focus on work, and not daydream about muscular shoulders and a shy smile. It was Wednesday, and she hadn't seen him since Sunday night.

"Vincent? That's his name?" He studied at her over the top of his coffee. She wondered if he'd won or lost the bet, or if he'd only been a casual observer. She couldn't tell from his expression.

"Yes, Joe, that's his name."

"So when am I going to get to meet him?" Joe teased. "I need to make sure he's worthy, y'know."

Catherine smiled. It was a real, genuine smile. "He'll be around. He's not a secret, just very busy."

"Yeah? What's he do for a living?" Joe planted himself on the end of her desk, curiosity obviously piqued. Given her past history of boyfriends, and fiascos at the office, perhaps it was a valid question.

"Family business. Construction." That was stretching the truth a bit, but on the other hand, much of Vincent's work in the tunnels often seemed to involve manual labor. So it wasn't actually an _untruth_.

"You and building tycoons ..." Joe shook his head, obviously amused. "So, how many yachts does he own?"

Catherine laughed, pretending to be surprised by his assumptions. "He's no Elliot, Joe, trust me on this one. Vincent's very down to earth."

"Yeah? You're slumming with a regular joe, then?"

"Hardly slumming." Catherine shot him a glare. Then she spotted an unexpected figure in the doorway of her office. She stared for a moment, and Vincent smiled quietly at her -- she wondered how long he had been there, and what he had heard, and what he thought. She hadn't sensed him coming, most likely because he had his gift clamped down very tight in the presence of so many strangers. Recovering with a shake of her head, she said, "And he is standing right behind you, so I'd watch what you say."

Joe spun about. "Oh! Hey! It's _great _to meet you! I just won fifty bucks!"

"Catherine," Vincent said, warmly. He gave Joe a curious look.

Catherine blinked a couple of more times, trying to figure out what to say. In truth, a few days before, she would have been no more surprised to find the Tooth Fairy in her office. Now, anything seemed possible. She smiled at Vincent, realizing there really _wasn't _any reason he couldn't swing by her office at lunchtime. Father would have a fit if he knew, but she had no issues with it. Just, she was surprised.

She could see in his eyes that coming Above, walking through a crowded office building, perhaps asking for directions from her coworkers, had probably been very difficult for him. But he'd done it, likely because he so desperately wanted to be part of her life -- and now, that was truly possible.

"Is he going to serve lobster?" Joe asked, curiously.

"Lobster?" Vincent asked, uncertainly. He sounded confused. Catherine had, of course, told him about the meal that Elliot had served her, and she watched comprehension dawn belatedly in his blue eyes as he remembered, and made the connection. The bafflement was replaced by amusement and he smiled slightly -- that expression would have been an open-mouthed grin, from anyone else. "A sandwich, perhaps."

"Oh, Radcliffe, you're lowering your standards here. I don't know if I can let you go with him."

"Be nice, Joe." Catherine, having risen, swatted her boss with a case folder. He ducked away, laughing. "Vincent, this is Joe Maxwell, my boss."

"Hey." Joe held a hand out, after a quick glance over Vincent's attire. Catherine was doubly glad she'd gotten him the work boots and the plaid shirt -- they were distinctly normal; he looked like, perhaps, a construction boss who'd stepped away from the site for lunch. "Good to meet you. You better be nice to Cathy or I'll steal her away."

"It's a pleasure to meet you," Vincent said, a little too quickly. She knew he wanted to flee. "I'd hoped to see Catherine for lunch. This is not an intrusion, is it?"

He was very unsure of himself, Catherine realized. Joe's good-natured teasing wasn't helping; Vincent was decidedly out of his element. However, Joe grinned despite his obvious uncertainty. "Nah. We let her out for an hour every day for good behavior. Get out of here, Radcliffe. The case I wanted to talk to you about can wait."

"A nice man," Vincent said, in the hall, a moment later.

"Who, Joe? Yes, he is." Catherine shook her head. "I can't believe you're _here_."

Vincent said, somewhat uncomfortably. "I needed to get away for a bit."

"From the Tunnels?" They were safe in the privacy of an elevator. She was surprised by that -- the Tunnels were his refuge.

Vincent hunched his shoulders unhappily. "Father is being very difficult. He keeps telling me 'nothing has changed' and yet he keeps pushing work on me like he never has in the past. And in between he keeps claiming I have responsibilities and duties." Vincent sighed. "He also reminds me at least once per day that he is my father. And God forbid I mention Aelann ..."

"He's jealous?"

Vincent grimaced. "Catherine, he is trying to get me to cancel the movie with you and Jenny. He says it is too dangerous; that I may do something foolish because I do not know the ways of the world above."

Catherine sighed. Vincent was no fool, and it was simply a movie. Father was being paranoid. She respected his concerns -- they'd kept Vincent alive for most of his life -- but Vincent was a big boy now, and no longer needed his protection. She said, "You'll be fine."

"I know that I will," he said, meeting her eyes. "I trust your judgment. But Father doesn't. Also, I do not believe that he appreciates the artistic merit of any fictional work created after about 1910."

She giggled. Vincent's voice was very dry; she wondered what sort of lectures Father had given him on the evils of modern forms of entertainment. "Not a big fan of pop culture, no. Heavens forbid I pollute your pure education on the classics by taking you to a modern movie."

They had ate down the street, at a little mom and pop Italian restaurant. Vincent, she discovered, had never had tiramisu before. They ate lasagna, and then the desert, and talked of nothing in particular because strangers might overhear -- but it was amazing simply to do something so normal as _lunch_ with him.

-------------

Wednesday night, Vincent was on his way out to see Catherine after dinner, when Father intercepted him. "Vincent, Mouse has the flu. Can you run to China town and get this remedy for me?" He thrust a folded piece of paper at him. "And be careful."

Vincent, just a scant few days ago, would have made his way there by the secret ways. Today, however, he was feeling bold: he went to the surface and started walking. He told himself Mouse really did need the remedy, and likely, everyone else was busy. Of course, he would go.

It was a long walk to China town and back. By the time he returned, it was too late to visit Catherine.

------------

Thursday evening, to his disgust, Father stopped him with a request that he tutor several of the children on their English homework -- a job he did not find a chore, except that he had hoped to see Catherine for dinner, at her invitation.

He eyed Father for a long moment, knowing that Father himself could have helped the children. "I promised Catherine dinner, Father."

"You have duties and responsibilities, first."

"Mary was on the schedule for the children, tonight."

"Mary has been working hard all day. She needs a break." Father's jaw was set stubbornly -- there would be no yielding from him. "Or are you letting this change go to your head? Catherine will wait; the children need you tonight."

He had been looking forward to relaxing with Catherine -- had made plans with her that involved dinner and reading poetry. He was exhausted, having spent most of the day breaking rock on the steam-tunnel repair project.

"Vincent ..."

"Father, do you trust me?" Vincent said suddenly, with real annoyance.

"Of course!"

Vincent rested both hands on Father's shoulders. "Then trust that I have not changed, and that you do not need to try so hard to keep me. I have no plans to leave the Tunnels, father. This is my home."

Father wouldn't meet his eyes.

Vincent, fists balled, spun away. "I'll help the children tonight. I imagine you have already told Mary that I would cover for her."

He hoped that Father would have the grace to offer to tutor the children himself, or to find someone else. But Father was silent, and Vincent, finally, forced himself to incline his head in acknowledgement. "I'll speak to you later, Father."

-------------

Friday found him running an errand for Mary -- in broad daylight, and in public.

"Vincent," she'd said, quite calmly, "can you take this to Megan Nicholas?"

'This' was a letter, and Megan was a Helper Vincent had seen occasionally since his own childhood. Her father had found shelter, for a time, in the Tunnels in the 60's. She lived in an area without tunnel entrances, which meant he'd have to come to the surface to reach her.

That location had meant, while he knew her from various Winterfairs and other social events, he didn't know her _well. _

Mary winked. "Don't tell Father." She thrust a subway pass into his hands. "And ride the subways the legal way. It's safer."

He smiled. "I think I can handle delivering a message."

-----------

He arrived at Megan's house at noon -- she was an artist who worked out of a studio on the top floor of her condominium, so he hoped she would be home. Still, nobody answered right away. He dropped the note through the mail slot on her front door and turned away to walk back to the subway, a mile away. He got as far as a dozen paces.

"Hey! Wait!" The door popped open.

He turned around, after a brief, reflexive urge to run. He was so very used to avoiding contact with people who shouted, "Hey, wait!" at him.

She was young -- Catherine's age. Pretty. He'd noted that 'pretty' in an abstract sense as a teenager; he could remember being attracted to her, long before he'd met Catherine. Devin had dated her regularly. She had blond, brown eyes, and was tall and thin and grinning.

"Hey!" She held the note up, "Are you new?"

He shook his head, returning to her. Somewhat shyly, he said, "Didn't you hear?"

She blinked at him, frowning. "... Hear?"

His voice was familiar; he knew that recognition would be nagging at her. And numerous people had commented on the fact that he still moved like himself, and the bones of his face hadn't changed -- the difference was only skin deep. What a difference it was, however!

"I'm Vincent."

She stared at him, clearly shocked. "I'd heard a rumor from Peter ..."

"Not a rumor," he said, smiling at her. "An impossibility that came true for me."

"Wow. I never thought I'd see you in daylight." She was clearly floored by this development.

"It is an absolutely lovely day, and a pleasure to be able to walk in the sunshine," he agreed. "I have few complaints."

She glanced absently skyward. Then, suddenly, she smiled. "Why don't you come in?"

"I should be going. Father will need me soon ..."

"I can make a cup of tea. I haven't had a chance to catch up on the Tunnel news; I just saw Peter briefly, last week. And I haven't talked to you in -- well, almost a year. Last Winterfair, I believe."

"If it's not an imposition, I suppose I could stay and talk a bit."

She gestured with her hand. "Come on in. I don't bite, I promise."

She made tea, as promised, and served up cookies as well.

He remembered her as being polite, if a bit reserved around him. She was a trusted helper, and she knew their secrets, but she'd never been a friend of his. So, he was a bit surprised when she started touching his hand as she talked, and laughing a bit loudly. He told himself it was the change in his appearance. He had been intimidating to many people, in the past. Now, he was just a regular guy.

Then it came: "So, what are you doing tonight, Vincent?"

To his shock, he realized she'd been flirting.

"I have plans. With Catherine." He couldn't quite keep the affronted indignation out of his voice. Did she think he would cheat on Catherine?

She frowned. "Oh, the woman you've been dating."

"More than dating. She is my world." He rose, stiffly, embarrassed at not having recognized the signs. He'd never been hit on before, by anyone, much less a helper who was such a casual visitor to the Tunnels that she didn't know Catherine. Had he accidentally led her on? "I must go."

"Wait! I didn't mean to ..."

He didn't wait to hear what she said. Feeling weirdly humiliated, and all out of sorts, he fled her house at a near run.

------------


	10. Chapter 10

The subway car rumbled down the track. It was almost empty -- he stood at one end, clutching a strap. At the other end, a woman sat. She was nervous, and all alone; he could sense the fear rolling off her in waves. Much of it was directed his way, so he pretended to ignore her.

_I may no longer look like a monster to her eyes, but I am still frightening to many women._

He was over six and a half feet tall, and powerfully muscular -- now that people weren't reacting, _Eeek! Fangs!, _he'd discovered that a small but significant portion of women were intimidated simply because of his _size_. It was if they expected him to act like a gorilla because he was as big as one.

_My father would have punished me rather severely if I failed to behave like a gentleman. _Vincent considered this particular problem for a moment, then decided to sit. It made him uneasy himself to be in a vulnerable position in public. Still, he told himself that the he was being foolish. Hundreds of thousands of people rode the subways every day in New York City and, as long as he acted like he belonged, nobody would notice anything unusual.

He had been rather inordinately proud of himself the first time he had ridden a subway alone, without doing so on the _outside _of the car. He'd dropped his coins in the slot, pushed through the gate, regarded the schedule calmly, and stepped aboard the right car. It had been all very simple and mundane and he had managed to avoid both a phobic reaction to the crowd and gawking like a tourist.

He'd been watching things from the shadows for most of his life and, really, Father was being irrational -- again -- about any danger he might face.

The woman kept shooting worried glances his way. He met her eyes and gave her a slight smile, attempting to look harmless and reassuring. Hastily, she looked away, and stared straight ahead, pretending to be fascinated by the graffiti drawn in lipstick on a window. Occasionally, she turned her attention to her white Keds, scuffing the shoes on subway car floor. Vincent, watching her from the corner of his eye, noted she decorated her sneakers with beaded safety pins. Had she been one of the children Below, he would have complimented her on her shoes in an attempt to put her at ease -- but he suspected if he said a word to her, she'd react badly.

The people Above, as a rule, did not look at strangers. _They're as afraid of each other as I am of them, _Vincent thought. Then, ruefully, he mentally added, _And still, I think as if I am an outsider. If I wanted to, now, I could join them._

He didn't want to. The woman's reaction was so typical of the world Above. Oh, it was entertaining to visit Above for a bit -- and there was much he wanted to do, including visiting museums, and perhaps even a bit of traveling, to see the sights he'd only ever read about -- but he wasn't sure he wanted to be part of a world where the friendly smile of a stranger made a woman jump and avert her eyes.

The car stopped at a platform, and four young men entered. They sat down next to the woman, and she started to rise, then realized _he _was at the other end of the car.

He smiled encouragingly, hoping she'd chose him over the kids. He didn't like the look of the boys: they were older teenagers, tough, wearing dirty clothes and smelling of alcohol. She looked away again, and sat primly back down in her seat, clutching her purse.

"Hey, lady," the boy next to her purred. "Don't be so unfriendly."

"Let me alone. My stop's coming up," she said, in a high, thin voice.

They weren't going to let her alone. And Vincent judged the next stop was five minutes away -- more than enough time for there to be serious trouble.

One of the boys reached for her purse. "Whatcha got in there?"

"Let me alone!" She tried to stand up.

Another teenager, on the other side of her, grabbed her by the waist and yanked her down into his lap. "Where are you going, sweetheart? We're just being friendly!"

Vincent was already halfway across the car. He'd risen as soon as he realized there was going to be trouble, without conscious thought. "Release her," he said, with a low growl in his voice.

"Hey, man, don't be a hero," the boys stood up together. He was reminded of a pack of dogs.

Individually, he could have taken any of them; they were skinny adolescents, each half his size. Together, however, he found he had his hands full. He didn't want to hurt them; they were just children.

And he didn't have his claws. Or fangs. Or an intimidating roar. He was just a big guy, muscle bound, but with no real idea how to throw a punch.

"Get out of here!" he snarled.

They laughed.

One of the boys produced a switchblade -- the knife was rusty, and he had to thump the heel end against one of the metal poles to make the knife pop out. He snarled a curse as he did so, and Vincent saw the steel, and he grew more desperate.

The woman had fled to the next car.

It was just him and the boys.

He threw one of them into some seats. The kid yelled and didn't rise. "My leg's broken!"

Three, now.

Two tackled him, holding him down for the third, with the knife.

The short blade flashed downward. He ripped an arm free from their grasp, deflected the steel with his wrist. There was no pain, just heat and pressure. He kicked out with his legs, throwing the boy back. Somehow, he twisted free of one of the teens grappling with him, and bodily grabbed the kid hanging off his good arm and slammed him into one of the closed doors.

He _heard _the boy's ribs break.

Memories, seared to his soul, of other fights rose up: skin, muscle, ripping and shredding under his claws. The smell of blood and viscera and shit. Screams. His vision was dimming.

The kid he'd just body-slammed was screaming. "Don't hurt me! Don't hurt me!"

Vincent stood, shoulders shaking, in the middle of the car. He wanted to vomit. He wanted to _run_, but the whole fight had only taken moments. Until they reached the next stop, there was nowhere to flee to. He couldn't catch his breath, and his heartbeat was loud in his own ears.

The door opened.

He bolted for the tunnels.

---------------

"I _told _you it was dangerous Above!"

Vincent sat stoically, and wordlessly, as Father stitched his arm up. The cut had already taken fifteen stitches; a quick glance at it told him to expect four or five more. It _burned, _and he'd turned down an offer of lidocaine because he wanted to save it for when it was truly needed. The Helpers, Above, funneled medication and supplies to them, but the quantities were always limited.

While the thought of stitches was gruesome, his experience was that the actual pain involved in getting them was fairly minor. They were only a little worse than getting a vaccination.

_If I had not been there, the woman would have been mugged, or worse. A few stitches for saving her from that fate is a small price to pay._

"You could have been killed."

"Please give me some credit, Father," Vincent said, finally. "I am aware of that."

Then he winced, as Father jostled his arm. His arm hurt so bad he saw stars, and he hissed.

"Vincent?" Father said, sounding worried. "Are you hurt anywhere else?"

"No, this injury is simply more painful than usual."

"Than usual." Father's precise, British, dictation made the words sound scathing. "I would dearly love to do without your 'usual,' Vincent." He tied a knot in a stitch, then added, "We know nothing of how this change has affected you. I wish you would show more caution, Vincent. It is not like you, to be so reckless."

Vincent held his tongue. Arguing with Father would do no good; there would be no swaying his opinion. Besides, he felt miserable. He wondered if he was coming down with something; there was a vicious pressure behind his eyes, and the cool air of the Tunnels was uncomfortable against the bare skin of his chest. He felt feverish.

In silence, Father completed the last stitch, and then taped a gauze pad over the cut. Over the top of that he wound an ace bandage. "I want you to keep that arm in a sling for a few days, Vincent."

"Catherine's coming ..." Vincent looked up, suddenly, sensing her approach. He forgot about the hot burn in the wound and turned his attention to the entrance to Father's chamber.

"Your powers are remarkable," Father said.

"Vincent!" She cried, entering the library in a rush. "I felt ... you were hurt ..."

"I am fine," he assured her. She dove into his arms, instinctively careful of the injured one; he wrapped his good arm around her shoulders and hugged her close. "I'm fine, Catherine. I did not realize you had sensed me get injured."

It felt so very good to hold her close. He buried his face in her hair and just stood there, feeling his anxiety and anger and fear of the morning flow away. She was the center of his world; he couldn't imagine _not _being able to hold her, like this.

"What happened?" She leaned back against his hand, and looked up at him. Vincent marveled at

"Twenty-two stitches," Father grumbled.

"And how did you get twenty-two stitches?" Catherine said, chidingly. "Vincent, I was terrified for you. I knew you were in a fight, but not why, or where."

"There was a woman." Vincent tugged Catherine close again. He was aware of Father's _tut-tut _noise of disapproval at the public display of affection, but it felt so very good to hold her close. He knew he'd frightened her badly; he felt horrible about it. Given it was barely three PM, he suspected she'd left work early and in a rush, too. "I rode the subway. Some boys were going to mug her, and molest her, and perhaps worse. I stopped it."

"Vincent, you should have called the police," Catherine said, after a moment of silence. "You're not ..."

"Not what, a monster?" He held a hand up, staring at his blunt fingertips. "Had I been myself, I could have put an end to things quickly. They would have run when they saw me. But I am still large, and strong, and I cannot stand by if someone will be hurt."

"He's right, Father," Catherine said. He wasn't very surprised by this. She knew the truth in his heart; she understood him. She might think that there were better ways to resolve things, but she understood his need to _defend_. "He couldn't simply stand by."

"He should not have been ..."

"Father," Catherine said, very seriously, "do you know how Vincent gets around?"

Father fell silent. He knew.

"If he wasn't riding in the subway cars, he'd be riding _on _them. Personally, I think riding _in _them is safer." She added, with a bit of dark humor, "Marginally."

Vincent wondered if Catherine had ever been alone in a subway car except for a large, strange man at the other end. Had she eyed that stranger with careful, indirect glances, the same way the young woman he'd rescued had watched him?

Probably.

"I understand your point," Father said, carefully, "but he should not have been out ..."

"I was twelve the first time I rode the subway alone," Catherine said, mildly. "I think that Vincent can handle a subway ride."

"But he should not have been Above at _all_. We could have sent a Helper on the errand he ran. He's needed here!"

Vincent shook his head. "Father, I beg you -- _please _stop this."

"_You _need to stop this madness, Vincent. You do not begin to understand what the world Above is like. This ... foolishness ... of yours, it is not healthy for you. You want what you cannot have."

Vincent hesitated a long moment. Father was building up to quite an angry fever pitch. He didn't want an argument with him. He glanced at Catherine, who met his eyes; she looked very troubled by the argument. He could sense roiling waves of turmoil from her -- was she blaming herself, he wondered, for this argument?

Father continued to glare.

Vincent finally snapped. "I believe I need some time apart from you, Father. Before I say things which would be unforgivable."

He turned about swiftly, took the steps up out of Father's library in two strides, and hurried out before Father could do something to trigger the words which he was biting back with stubborn determination. Catherine hurried after him. He slowed his pace down to let her catch up, and she put a hand on his arm. "Are you okay?"

"I am sorry that you had to witness that."

"I think I triggered it, actually." She rested her head against his upper arm. "Was I wrong in coming here?"

He hugged her, suddenly. "Never. And _thank you _for coming."

"He's being a bit hard on you, isn't he?"

"He's scared." Vincent had said it before, but it bore repeating. "He is frightened that I will leave. He's scared for me; he does not believe it is safe for me, above."

"Vincent," she looked up at him, and then she said seriously, "The Tunnels are a remarkable place, and Father is correct in that the world Above can be a terrible place, but ... have you ever considered that he's only acknowledging half of the truth?"

"Above isn't as terrible as he claims. There is good, and beauty, Above. Yes. I know." He started walking again, a hand spread wide across the small of her back. "He is somewhat nearsighted about this. Perhaps he needs to be, to keep us safe -- we must be so careful not to attract attention, not to bring the world Above down on us. But, yes, I know things are not as black and white as he often presents."

He sighed. "Now, there are far more shades of grey. For me."

"Come home with me tonight?" She asked. She was asking for more than that.

Suddenly, he swept her into a tight hug with his good arm. "Catherine, I love you."

He'd never said that, in so many words, before. His declaration sent a fierce thrill through her. Oh, she _knew _he loved her -- she could sense it, and he had told her so with his actions and behavior. But never before had he actually _said _so. He'd always held back, reticent and shy. She had been the one to make bold and sweeping declarations of her feelings; he had never been so bold before.

She pushed back a bit, and stood on her tiptoes and put her arms around his neck and kissed him. He didn't pull away.


End file.
